


Gloom Into Light

by arcadianambivalence



Category: Elementary
Genre: F/F, OCs - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Unrequited, Vomit, crime-related violence, mention of suicide (even though it's proved to be murder), mentions of drug addiction, mentions of pill addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:06:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadianambivalence/pseuds/arcadianambivalence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NYPD criminalist Mary Morstan specializes in examining evidence for the cold facts, but one truth continues to elude her, and that involves Joan Watson.  Hopelessly taken with the fledging consulting detective, Mary agrees to help Holmes and Watson on a case, but when life interferes with work, she wonders if stepping out of the lab has put her into more than she can handle...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pathetic

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Sign of the Four: "Like all human kind, they flitted from the gloom into the light, and so back into the gloom once more."
> 
> Mary Morstan hasn't appeared (yet) in the show, so this relies on my head-canon about her. In my mind, she's a criminalist, specifically, a toxicologist (studies crime scene evidence involving drugs, alcohol, ect.) for the NYPD. She met Sherlock and Joan during a case and continues to aid Gregson, Bell, and them when required.
> 
> (And she looks like Sarah Shahi...)
> 
> Rating will go up as this continues.

A twelve hour shift over, _at long last,_ Mary Morstran drug her feet across the doorway and collapsed onto the couch in her tiny apartment.  She let her body sink into the old, squishy cushions, her exhaustion cradled in the fabric and foam.  The need for sleep scratched at her eyes as she struggled to stay awake.  Her suit and coat would wrinkle, but she could not be bothered to care as she drifted off into a rest enveloped in her soreness.

            The buzz of her phone from her pant pocket yanked her from fading away into sleep.  Reluctantly, she cracked open her eyes and dug her phone out.  The screen pierced the fog of her fatigue and the light made her wince.  She checked the time.

            “ _10:30…_ ” she groaned and slid her thumb across the screen until the recent text message appeared.

            _Joan._

            Suddenly, being interrupted from snoozing on the couch while still in work clothes seemed like a pathetic way to spend the night, especially whileJoan was awake.

            She struggled to a sitting position and read the message:

            _Sherlock wants your input on a case._

            Mary’s shoulders slumped as she heaved a sigh.  _So much for spending time with just me._   It wasn’t that she did not like Sherlock or value his wanting her opinion on a crime, but it was _half past ten_ and she would rather spend time with Joan or else in bed—alone, as luck (or lack thereof) would have it.  Besides, having Joan text for Sherlock was a double punch to the gut, rejected as a friend, rejected as a lover.  _Not that there’s any hope of reversing that situation._   She thought glumly.

            She had come to terms with the fact that Joan did not, could not, have a romantic relationship with her, that—once more in a string of romantic disappointments—she cared for someone whose sexual orientation did not include the likes of her.  Still, the hope of at least more of a friendship than just working together on cases sprang eternal.

            _Toughen up._   She told herself.  _Mooning over another straight woman is pathetic.  Now get up and work the case._   With great effort, she climbed from the couch, straightened her coat, and walked out the door.

            —And then rushed back inside her apartment to check how she looked in the mirror because, for all her big talk to herself, she was just as pathetic as ever when it came to Joan.


	2. Hooked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this took over a month. "Gloom Into Light" started out as a drabble, but it seemed like a good first chapter to a fic. Lesson learned, I should plan things out better...

Mary remembered her first encounter with Joan and Sherlock.

            A man died, seemingly of a drug overdose involving prescription drugs and barbiturates.  She remembered a tall, wide-eyed man with messy hair skitting around in the corners of the apartment, jaw clenched and face tight with a grimace.

            _First day on the job?_   She had thought, eying him warily before returning to the matter at hand.  The victim lay slumped against the kitchen cabinet, eyes still open, body stiffening.  Overturned, unscrewed bottles of pills lay scattered around him.

            _Ambilify._

_Lithium._

            It was an overdose.  And, considering the amount around him as well as lodged in his throat and, most likely, in the puddle of vomit dried on the man’s clothes, sink, and countertop.

Members of the Crime Scene Unit carefully tip-toed around the chaotic maze of medication.  Certain police officers and stander-by were not as cautious with their footfalls.

            _Don’t step on the spilled pills.  Don’t step on the spilled pills._   Her stomach tightened at the fear of crushed evidence.  From her crouched position, she craned her neck to look back at the men practically standing over the evidence.

            “I’m going to need you to back away from the evidence.  Particles on the bottom of your shoes can interfere with the evidence and impede the investigation.”  She urged, staring up at the towering men.

            They glanced nervously at their surroundings: a tiny kitchen, half of it blocked off, with the spot they stood in the least sickening in terms of smell.  After a moment’s hesitation, they turned and shuffled out into the den, leaving the kitchen considerably more spacious.

            Her stomach unclenched and she muttered, “Stale vomit.  That’ll clear a room.”

            The wide-eyed man chose then to slip into the room, a handkerchief— _who keeps a handkerchief?_ —held over his mouth.

            She raised an eyebrow at him, trying to either intimidate him into leaving or convince him of her authority if he remained.  Instead of acknowledging her, he knelt down a foot away from her and proceeded to scan the scene himself.

            “Did you not get the memo about work attire?”  She asked, only half joking.

            “I work as a consultant for Captain Gregson.  What I wear to the crime scene is irrelevant as I’m only having a look around,” he responded with eye contact.

            She noted the accent.  “English?”  She asked as she scraped a portion of the vomit into an evidence bag.

            “Yes,” he replied, eyes rapt on the pills.

            “Worked any cases before?”

            He shrugged, “A few.”  With a start, he jumped to his feet rushed to Captain Gregson, as if eager to leave the scene.

            Mary began to sigh with relief that he had left when Gregson announced that there was enough evidence to give suspicion to murder.  She glanced over her shoulder into the den to see the Englishman standing next to the Captain, his expression a mix of pity and triumph—or at least, that was in her peripheral vision.

            Everything else faded out when her eyes found Joan, long dark hair, bright eyes, and a force to be reckoned with.  A force inescapable.  And from that moment on, Mary was hooked.


End file.
